Ariane could see Ranulf had earned a devotee for life. And she recognized the sentiment. She had once viewed Ranulf with that same adoration—hero worship for a powerful warlord who had been kind to a nervous young girl.
“I have a son about your age,” she was surprised to hear Ranulf say, and more surprised by his look. His face had softened completely, his eyes filling with something warm, gentle. Ranulf sighed softly.
“I did not know you had a son.”
He glanced at Ariane absently. “I have two, and a daughter as well.”
She felt another jolt of surprise at his admission. Many lords had no notion of the number of children they had sired; generally they ignored their offspring as the regretful consequence of passion. But Ranulf not only knew, but had spoken of them with pride.
“They are bastards, all.” His tone was pointed, almost challenging.
“So I would imagine,” Ariane replied frankly, “since you have no wife.”
She saw him bite back a smile, but there was little humor in his eyes; the amber depths were entirely serious. She was puzzled by Ranulf’s expression. He watched her carefully, almost as if expecting her to respond with scorn and contempt.
“I would not expect a noble lady such as yourself,” he said without inflection, “to hold an indulgent view of bastard children born to serfs.”
“You have acknowledged them?”
“Yes. And provided for their welfare.”
“Then there is no shame attached to their birth. As for indulgence, I have an example in my lady mother. She not only accepted my father’s bastard, but brought him into the castle to train as a cleric.”
“Would that all noblewomen could be so generous.”
His bitterness confused her, disturbed her, but before she could quiz him about it, Ranulf stiffened suddenly, as if recalling to whom he was speaking.
“I believe I dismissed you, demoiselle,” he said.
His remote tone, coming on the heels of his warmth toward the young William, made Ariane wince. With sparks flaring between them anew, she turned away with an abruptness that was almost a flounce.
Alone, Ranulf ate his food without tasting it, his thoughts centered once more on how to deal with the disturbing Ariane. He could not quite believe her reasonable view of bastard children. He’d had too much painful experience with the scorn and derision of her noble class and station.
It could have been moments or hours before Ranulf heard a throat being cleared nervously. He looked around to find the aged, balding priest of Claredon standing beside his chair, gazing at him in trepidation.
“Might I beg a word with you, sire?”
Ranulf nodded courteously. “Father John, is it not?”
“Aye, milord.”
“Should you not be saying Mass, Father?”
“There was no one in the chapel.” His gentle brown eyes looked faintly accusing. “You have imprisoned everyone of rank, and the villeins are afraid to risk your wrath, milord.”
Ranulf frowned. “You may gather your flock without fear of retribution, Father. I would not deny the people of Claredon spiritual solace.”
“I thank you, milord.”
“Is that all?”
“Nay, milord.” The priest stood for a moment, wringing his hands in agitation. “I fear I must speak. I can no longer be silent. I must make you see the wrong in what you do.”
Ranulf’s slashing eyebrows lifted. “Indeed?”
“It is the Lady Ariane, sire . . . and your . . . er . . . your treatment of her.”
“What of my treatment?”
The elderly man hesitated to reply. “You have dishonored her . . .”
With effort, Ranulf kept his tone mild. “How have I done so, priest? I have required her to serve me at table and act as my squire, nothing more.”
“You have held her prisoner in your chamber these three nights past.”
“Merely to keep an eye on her. I cannot trust her to roam free, or she might aid another of her father’s vassals to escape.”
“But your . . . you . . . the disrespect you showed her just now . . . It is not meet that your lips should caress her skin in the hall, as if she were a serf.”
“Did the lady ask you to entreat me on her behalf?”
“Nay, milord! She would never! But I have eyes to see and ears to hear. I have heard . . . that you mean not to wed her.”
“We are no longer betrothed, ’tis true,” Ranulf replied defensively. “She is my hostage for the nonce.”
“Will you not allow her to take refuge in a convent?”
“The lady claims she does not wish to enter a nunnery.”
“But what of her future? If she is not for the Church, then she must have a husband.”
“That is beyond your purview, priest,” Ranulf observed. “King Henry will see to her future in due time, depending on the outcome of her father’s treason.”
“But I have a duty—”
Abruptly Ranulf raised a commanding hand, making the old man fall silent. “Your duty is to minister to your flock, not to question my actions. The Lady Ariane is my prisoner, to deal with as I see fit. Now, this interview is concluded. I am certain you have business to attend to.”
“Aye, milord . . .” With an obsequious bow, the priest backed away.
The priest’s rebuke was valid, Ranulf knew. A castle staff, like the larger feudal society, followed a stratified order that was ordained by God. He had upset that order by making Ariane serve in place of his squire. He’d thought forcing her to publicly acknowledge his authority the best way to compel her submission, and that of her loyal followers as well. But he never should have caressed her in public.
He was willing to admit he had gone too far in that regard—but by the Cross, he should never have been forced to compel her obedience in the first place. And in his own defense, he had acted out of anger and carnal frustration. He had not considered that she would feel shamed by his display, either. Few noblewomen of his acquaintance possessed the slightest sense of shame, and even less honor. They cuckolded their lords, abandoned their children, schemed and plotted and conspired to improve their own fortunes. . . . Yet the Lady Ariane’s former station as chatelaine at least merited a measure of respect.
Ranulf stared grimly at his bowl of porridge. Even before the priest’s challenge, he’d begun having second thoughts about the wisdom of his plan to win her cooperation through seduction. Clearly, if he was to gain the respect of Claredon’s people, he could not treat their lady like a common castle wench.
Very well, Ranulf concluded reluctantly, gritting his teeth. If she obeyed him, he would release Ariane from her pledge to serve him. If she was willing to admit her defeat, then he was prepared to show her lenience, even though it was not wholly deserved.
In the solar one floor above, Ariane was experiencing her own frustration while she fetched her mantle at Ranulf’s command.
As she fastened the clasp over one shoulder, she could not keep her gaze averted from the bed where Ranulf had brought her to pleasure. A flush stained her cheeks as she remembered the heat, the desire, he had aroused in her so effortlessly. Sweet Mary, she had found her first taste of passion incredible—and incredibly enjoyable, although hot irons could not have forced her to admit it to him.
For a moment her eyes clouded with sadness. Why could he not have honored the contract and wed her? She would have been a good wife to him, even under these trying circumstances. She would have endeavored to ensure his happiness. They could have shared a common purpose, to rule their land and serve their king. Perhaps they might even have found love, although she could not see how such a harsh, unfeeling warlord as the Black Dragon of Vernay could possibly have any room in his heart for so tender an emotion as love. He was a devil.
They would never find a common purpose now, not with the animosity and mistrust that raged between them. Ranulf would never honor her. She was naught but a possession to him, a pawn, a hostage he must needs prove hi
s mastery over. He demanded her submission and would be satisfied with nothing less.
Dragging her gaze from the bed, Ariane reluctantly turned to the door. Ranulf had not vanquished her yet, and yet it was becoming more difficult each passing day to hold out hope that she could win any victory over him.
When she left the solar, she was startled to find her half-brother Gilbert lurking in the shadows. Evidently he had been lying in wait for her, and from the heightened color of his fair complexion, he was bursting with fury.
“My lady! He has gone too far! It is beyond bearable! You must allow me to avenge your honor!”
Ariane sighed wearily. As much as she would like to see the Black Dragon defeated, Gilbert was not the one to do it. The boy would be crushed by so skilled and powerful a warrior as Ranulf—if my lord even deigned to accept such a challenge. As the son of a serf, Gilbert was proscribed from certain rights, such as challenging the nobility to combat. According to the rules of knightly conduct, only peers could fight one another. And Gilbert’s youth was another strike against him. Boys were not allowed to use a knight’s weapons. Even squires were permitted only wooden lances and swords with which to practice.
“I cannot bear to see the lady of Claredon so degraded and scorned!” the lad cried. “He treats you worse than a serf! He fondles you as if you were his leman.”
She flushed in spite of herself. “That was not the way of it.”
“It was! And I would avenge your honor!” Gilbert repeated fiercely. “I would challenge Lord Ranulf on the field of honor!”
Ariane shook her head. She would have to persuade the boy that his plan was not merely foolish, but suicidal. “Gilbert,” she said gently, “you are untrained as a warrior, unskilled at arms. Lord Ranulf has vanquished even the most powerful of his foes. He would kill you in moments.”
“It matters not. I cannot stand by and do nothing! I have the right, my lady. In our father’s absence, I am your nearest male relative. It falls to me to protect you.”
Ariane gave another sigh. “Gilbert, I thank you with all my heart for championing me, but I could not bear it if you came to harm. With my father under suspicion of treason, my mother gone, I have lost everyone I hold dear. I could not bear to lose you, too. I need you, Gilbert.”
He clenched his fists, but the wildness seemed to leave his blue eyes. “If you will not permit me to fight him, then we must seek redress in the courts.”
“The courts?”
“Aye. I know something of the law, my lady. You have right on your side. We could sue the lord of Vernay in civil court for breaking the betrothal.”
Ariane stared at Gilbert for a long moment. “Assuming we had a case, and assuming we could persuade the new king’s courts to hear it, what would we gain by taking so bold an action?”
“Why, riches and land, my lady. Lord Ranulf has claimed the whole of your father’s estates and reduced you to penury. Were you awarded a settlement, you would no longer be dependent on the new lord’s generosity, nor would you be forced to serve him. And he would be made to pay for the ill he has done to you.”
She nodded slowly. “Yet such a case might be difficult to win, especially since it is complicated by our father’s situation. I am considered King Henry’s political hostage.”
“But we should try.”
“I should like time to consider your proposal, Gilbert.”
“But, my lady—”
“I shall think on it, I promise.”
Her assurances evidently did not allay the lad’s frustration, however. “If you will not challenge Lord Ranulf in the courts, then we must take some other course. At the very least, he should be made to honor the contract and wed you. It is only meet that he make restitution for casting you aside after so long, and for the dishonor he has brought you. In truth, you are already wed to him in the eyes of the church, but for the final vows and consummation. If you had proof he had violated you, then not even the wicked Dragon could repudiate the marriage.”
Ariane frowned thoughtfully. It would solve many of her immediate problems if Ranulf were somehow required to honor the betrothal. Why had she never considered such a perspective before? Because for the past few days, she had been dazed by uncertainty and wariness. She had not been thinking clearly or objectively. And in her despair at Ranulf’s easy victory, her fury over his devious means of gaining possession of Claredon, and her humiliation at his repudiation, she had beenglad to see an end to the betrothal, and thus acceded to his wishes without a fight.
But Gilbert was right on one score. Ranulfshould have to make restitution for the lost years of her youth, and for ruining her chances of marrying honorably elsewhere. Did Gilbert but know it, Ranulfhad effectively violated her. This morning he had stripped away her carnal innocence, had introduced her to passion, an intimacy which only a husband had the right to claim.
Yet her reasons for wanting to secure the marriage now went far beyond revenge. As the lord’s wife she would be in a better position to protect Claredon and its dependents, as well as to safeguard the secret she had harbored for so long—a secret she would give her life to protect. Her own legal rights as a wife would be greater than those of a mere hostage, true, but more crucially, if her status of lady were restored, she could work on behalf of her father, to try and refute the charge of treason. He was not guilty, she knew in her heart, but only if she were in a position of power could she even begin to prove his innocence. As Ranulf’s hostage, she could do naught, but as his wife . . .
For the first time since Ranulf had taken possession of Claredon four days ago, Ariane felt a fierce surge of hope. Her heart suddenly racing, she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Sweet Mary, she had little to lose and so much to gain. . . .
“What is it, my lady?” her brother asked anxiously.
“Hush, let me think!”
Even if she would rather be boiled in oil than take Ranulf de Vernay as her husband after all he had done to her, she had to attempt it. But attemptwhat ? The betrothal contract was not binding so long as it remained unconsummated. And there had to be proof of consummation in order for the church to sanctify the marriage. So . . . was there a way to ensure its consummation?
How? Ranulf had sworn never to touch her—or at least, she amended, remembering his wicked advances this morning, that her maidenhead was safe from him. She could try to win his affections and pretend a fondness for him, yet if she showed the slightest softening toward him, he would see through her at once. She knew nothing of the arts that came so naturally to some women—of flirtation and simpering and flattery. She would make a wretched seductress.
Yet she had to dosomething. Gilbert was right. Simply ringing her hands and bewailing her plight would gain her naught. Somehow she had to persuade Ranulf to reconsider their marriage. At the very least she had to make it impossible for him to break the betrothal contract. If she could manage that, if she could win her rights as his wife, then she could use her power to aid the people who depended on her.
“My lady?” Gilbert asked worriedly.
Summoning her resolve, Ariane lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She had been meek and acquiescent long enough. She had obeyed Ranulf’s demands, suffered his retribution without protest. It was time he was brought to see reason.
“Calm yourself, Gilbert. All will yet be well, I swear it,” she said with a confidence that was growing each successive moment.
“But what will you do?”
“I am not yet certain.” She forced a smile as she gazed at her anxious half-brother. “But I assure you I will take your advice to heart. Somehow Lord Ranulf must be shown the injustice of repudiating our betrothal. And then . . . then he must be persuaded that he needs me for his wife.”
10
It was a subdued and thoughtful Ariane who accompanied Ranulf and his armed retinue to the fields. More than once he gave her a wary glance as she rode docilely beside him on her palfrey, until finally she bestirred herself to respond with her
usual tartness in order to allay his suspicions.
When he compelled her time and again to address the serfs they found working the land, she did so with stoicism, telling them in gentle, sincere tones to bow to the new lord and they would find him a merciful master.
Ariane prayed her counsel was true. She did not want Claredon’s serfs to suffer under the rule of the Black Dragon. Yet somehow she doubted they would. Ranulf might threaten and act the ogre with her, no doubt to frighten her into submission. And displaying her subservience was a cleverly calculated strategy to demoralize her people’s efforts at resistance. But Ranulf was clearly not the brute his terrible reputation suggested. In truth, he had shown his rebellious enemies more mercy than she could rightfully expect. Perhaps there was softness beneath that harsh exterior, after all. A softness he kept hidden from the world.
Could she possibly use that to her advantage? Ariane wondered. Could she somehow persuade him to wed her as he had promised years before?
It was imperative that she try. At this very moment, Ranulf’s retinue of knights and men-at-arms was passing the eastern forest with its thick stands of oak and birch and tangled hedges of hawthorn—passing too close for Ariane’s comfort. She was careful to keep her eyes averted, to show no special interest in this particular stretch of wood.
It had been merely four days since Ranulf had seized Claredon and taken her hostage, yet worry nagged at her conscience. How could she possibly escape the Black Dragon’s scrutiny long enough to slip from the castle and pay a brief visit to these woods? It was a mission she could entrust to no one, a secret she could never share—although if the case grew desperate enough, she might have to consider it.
Furtively, Ariane stole a glance at Ranulf as he rode beside her. How would he react should he discover her secret? How would he feel about her aiding the wretched souls God had abandoned?
He looked supremely powerful and totally ruthless just now, arrayed in full armor, mounted on his prancing black war stallion. The nose guard of his steel helmet shielded much of his face from her view, yet his strong jaw suggested relentless determination, and he stared straight ahead, as if he were ruler of all he surveyed.
The Warrior Page 17